This below entry was written 2 weeks ago under the influence of blood-surging anxiety. I am in a calmer state at the moment and I re-read my writing and realized what a neurotic psycho-bitch I am (like I didn’t know pssshft). But for your (and my) amusement, I will still post my 2-week-old ramblings as a reminder of my neurotic psycho-bitch tendencies. Here goes. You might want to take a bathroom break first; this’ll be a while.
“Let’s talk about love. Not really love but intimacy and everything that comes with it. I am allergic. It’s official. Okay I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start from the very beginning, a very good place to start.
This story starts with the groan-triggering sentence ‘so there’s this guy.’
This guy I’ve known for quite a while. He’s a friend of the family, which makes him not even a ‘guy’ but a regular person, an audience of me at my most bare; without the mascara and the witty eager-to-please gimmicks that so often work as bait on my hook before I reel them in and then proceed to throw them back in the swamp after I feel like I’ve earned my trophy swordfish.
Argh, I’m making myself sound like a heartless manizer, but yes, I must admit that conquering a person of the opposite sex is a very amusing sport.
So back to ‘this guy’. Because that is what he’s become: a guy. And this guy is the reason for this self-centered and heart-opening post.
It started out with an exchange of artistic knowledge, then we talked about Freud, then it evolved into a passionate conversation about personal philosophies. Then somehow the impenetrable armor I have so craftily built around my heart cracked and a hazy fume called intimacy managed to seep its way in. At first I thought it was a temporary Freudian slip. Nothing fatal. I spoke too soon. That damn Freud.
I have never before in my life opened myself up like this to a person, let alone a boy. This is probably why I get over failed relationships so easily, easier than that time when I had to get over losing my favorite Zara bag to the gnawing jaws of my ex-boyfriend’s dog. If I never let them in in the first place, it won’t be hard to get them out, right? That was my superpower, that was why I was extraordinary, because I was emotionally invincible. Sure, I was a cold, hard bitch, but I was strong and the opposite of vulnerable. Now I’m naked and ordinary and a human being.
I was the Peter Petrelli of relationships; I could never be struck down because I could regenerate my heart like a mutilated starfish.
One word keeps surging in my veins now: FEAR.
Intimacy used to be so fun when it was just physical. The human heart is such a complicated contraption. I wish I had a user’s manual right now.
It is now 24 hours later, and I feel raw. I am afraid because the toxic fumes of intimacy have spread. I feel like I’m Mayor of Raccoon City and zombies have infested the premises. My comfort zone has been breached.
I do realize this self inflicted drama of mine is no Mumbai catastrophe, nor is it a global threat, nor is it a political scandal but this minuscule dilemma has possessed my mind and I can’t seem to think about anything else.
I feel alive and afraid and human. I wish I could die again because you can’t die when you’re already dead.”
Right. It is now 379 hours later, and I feel silly. Toxic fumes of intimacy? Comparing my comfort zone to a fictional city in a video game? Calling my heart a starfish? Using Heroes references to describe my attitude towards relationships? Welcome to cuckoo-ville. Sheesh.
Hello everybody, my name is Annisa Dharma and I am a recovering intimacy-phobe. Do be gentle.